


Eye of the Storm

by jessalae



Category: West Wing
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-27
Updated: 2011-05-27
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:23:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You might recall that when we first met, I said that that place you work tends to turn people horribly dull. Some of them come into it dull, of course -- but some of them began their term of service as interesting men, and it’s a damned shame when they finally stumble out at the end of their sentence, thoroughly bereft of all their previous allure.” John looks Lionel square in the eye. “I’m trying to keep you from losing your allure.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eye of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [salable_mystic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salable_mystic/gifts).



> Written for salable_mystic, who requested happy Lionel Tribbey/Lord John Marbury slash involving John taking an interest in Lionel's cricket bat. (The actual prompt was more specific, but I veered off of it a bit -- I hope that's okay!) A million thanks to in_lighter_ink for beta-ing! No content notes apply.

Lionel Tribbey's office is full of boxes waiting to be unpacked.

He's the fourth White House Counsel the Bartlet administration has hired in two years, which he probably should have taken as a warning. Lionel still isn't sure why he thought it would be a good idea to take a job that three men he's admired since law school, giants of the legal profession, have already walked out on. If Cochran, Gates, and Solomon couldn't handle this three-ring circus of a White House, why on Earth did Lionel think he could do any better?

He's managed to keep things together so far, barely — but it's been almost three weeks, and his office still isn't unpacked. It’s starting to get on his nerves.

He finishes reviewing yet another brief about this State Department thing, jots a note to himself, and adds the brief to the growing pile where his Out box would theoretically be.

As soon as the paper hits the desk, his assistant is in front of him, snatching it up and replacing it with a fat three-ring binder. “The Jones file,” she says. “I’ll bring you the last deposition as soon as they fax it over. Once you’re done with that, Paula and David are finished looking over that draft of the Appropriations bill, and Ron is making an absolute mess of the Monaghan brief, you could save yourself some work tomorrow if you give it a glance today—“

Lionel raises both hands, bringing her to a halt. “Jesus, Sandra, breathe. That’s my schedule for the rest of the day?”

“That’s your schedule for the rest of the _morning_ ,” Sandra clarifies. “I think you’ll have time for lunch between twelve fifteen and twelve forty-five, but the Secretary of State’s office just called to see if they could move up your meeting this afternoon, so that might change.”

Lionel takes a deep breath, resting both hands on his desk. “Okay. You know what? I'm taking a break now.”

Sandra frowns at him. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Well, I am, and fortunately I outrank you. For now.” Lionel stands, turning to the looming pile of boxes in the corner. “I’ll finish everything by the end of the day, but right now, I am going to unpack my damn office. Having all my stuff in boxes makes me feel like I might get evicted at any moment.”

“I’m bringing you that deposition as soon as we have it,” Sandra says as she leaves. Lionel rubs his hands together and starts in on the boxes.

His law school diploma goes on the wall, the photo of his nieces and nephew on the corner of his desk. The four cartons of books get unloaded haphazardly onto his desk, his chair, and the lower two shelves in his bookcase so he can alphabetize them properly. Halfway through that, he pauses to shift the last box onto his desk — the one with the desk clock, the miscellaneous knickknacks that people insist on giving him, the cricket bat — to make room on the floor for the W, Y, and Z sections. For a few minutes, Lionel’s world is peaceful.

He’s just sliding _Foundations of Tort Law_ into place on the third shelf when a noise at the doorway makes him look up. There’s a man at the door of the office, wearing a rumpled but extremely expensive suit and looking amused. Their department is busy enough that nobody seems to have noticed his entrance except Lionel; he leans against the doorframe oblivious to the frenzy behind him, the man in the middle of the hurricane whose clothes are untouched by the wind.

“Can I help you?” Lionel says, adding two more books to the shelf before he stands.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” the man says. “Just looking around.”

Lionel frowns at him, annoyed at having his break interrupted. “Are you a tourist?”

The man snorts. “Hardly. Though I sometimes feel I might be treated with more respect if I wandered in here wearing an ill-fitting I Heart DC t-shirt and carrying a camera.”

Lionel just stares at the man in disbelief. The stranger smiles indulgently.

“I suppose your next question would be what _am_ I doing here. The answer, of course, is that I was summoned for a meeting that should have begun fifteen minutes ago, but regrettably Gerald seems to be having a rather busy morning. I thought that while I waited I might as well have a look round the place, see how everyone is getting along.”

“Gerald?” Lionel is now thoroughly confused.

“I rather think he was feigning occupation in order to avoid me,” the man muses, wandering further into Lionel’s office and poking through the box on his desk. “He’s never thought much of me, I fear, but that sentiment may be encouraged by the fact that I’ve never thought anything of him.”

“Who _are_ you?” Lionel finally manages to ask.

“Oh, sorry, frightfully rude of me,” the man says, offering his hand. “Lord John Marbury. Please, call me John.”

Lionel blinks, then shakes his hand. “Lionel Tribbey,” he says, “White House Counsel. And while I’m glad you find my office so fascinating, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You might have noticed we’re a little busy around here today.”

John doesn’t let go of his hand. “Lionel. You have the most astonishing brown eyes, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Not recently,” Lionel says, disentangling himself and taking a step back.

“Shame.” John shakes his head. “You’ll have to be careful — this place seems to make everyone who works here frightfully dull, no matter how interesting they were to begin with.”

“I’ll try to avoid it,” Lionel says.

“Well, I’ll let you get to it, then,” John says, clapping his hands together. “Plenty of things need doing, I’m sure, what with this mess your State Department has made of things. Lovely to meet you!”

“Same to you,” Lionel says.

“Oh, and Lionel?” John smiles at him calmly. “If you ever find yourself in need of a rest, and you do in fact know how to use that cricket bat sitting in the box on your desk, you should drop by the British embassy on a Saturday afternoon. We could use a good batsman in our game.” He strolls out of the office — the only person simply walking down the hallway instead of rushing to be somewhere.

Lionel watches him until he turns a corner, and when Sandra comes by with the faxed deposition, he can’t quite explain to her the huge smile on his face.

***

After the initial confusion of Lionel’s arrival, and then the secondary confusion of the State Department fiasco, there’s a tertiary confusion involving the Attorney General and a tangential but no less frustrating issue with the Department of Housing and Urban Development. Lionel is in the office until nine or ten most nights, writing briefs, sorting through precedent, glaring furiously at incompetent paralegals.

Despite his hectic schedule, a week later, he hasn’t forgotten his strange run-in with Lord John Marbury — but it’s still surprising when the man shows up outside his office door, deftly intercepting the paralegal who was bringing Lionel his third cup of coffee.

“Unacceptable,” John says, making a face and handing the mug back to the confused paralegal. “If you insist on drinking that vile stuff, Lionel, you may as well drink the slightly better variety.”

“Can I help you?” Lionel says.

“No, but allow me to help _you_ ,” John says, taking Lionel by the elbow and guiding him towards the door. Lionel looks back at the mountain of papers waiting for him on his desk, glances at his watch, and starts to shake his head — but John takes Lionel’s jacket off the hook by the door and hands it to him with the air of someone who expects everyone to follow his instructions to the letter, and Lionel decides to just go with it.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes, Sandra,” he calls as they head out of the department.

“Make it twenty,” John calls imperiously.

They end up in a tiny Italian coffee shop on L Street that Lionel’s never even seen before. It smells heavenly, and he has to admit that the cappuccino he orders is miles better than the sludge they make at the office. He slides into the booth John has chosen, sipping his coffee contentedly.

John is smiling at him in a way Lionel can’t quite place. “So why did you bring me here, exactly?” he asks.

“I was in the neighborhood,” John answers, waving a hand vaguely. “I imagined you could probably use a break.”

“In the neighborhood as in visiting the White House, or in the neighborhood as in somewhere on the Eastern Seaboard?”

“If the first option is true, the second one necessarily is as well,” John says, “so I will simply answer _yes_. But allow me to propose a more interesting question: why did you come with me?”

Lionel doesn’t really have an answer, so they chat about the weather and the situation in Tibet instead. When he returns to his office fifteen minutes later, Lionel is still slightly confused by John’s rambling conversation, but can’t seem to stop whistling cheerfully even though his paperwork mountain has grown a full inch.

***

Lionel can’t figure out exactly what it is John _does_ , but he’s pretty sure he can’t be on official diplomatic business to the White House every week. He’s equally sure that official diplomatic business doesn’t include introducing the White House Counsel to your favorite French restaurant (“Their boeuf bourgignon is the best you’ll find outside Paris, but don’t take any of the waiter’s wine recommendations, he doesn’t know a merlot from a malbec”) or taking him for a stroll in the Lower Senate Park (“Fewer tourists around here, but your so-called legislators are often just as obnoxious”). If he didn’t know better, he’d think John was courting him.

When Sandra starts penciling outings with John into Lionel’s schedule, though, Lionel starts to think he might not actually know better, and makes a few discreet inquiries into John’s reputation. What he finds isn’t particularly flattering: the prevailing opinion among women in the White House seems to be that Lord Marbury might be a foreign policy genius, well worthy of his on-again-off-again consulting position, but he’s also definitely insane. According to a great deal of reliable testimony, John has an ego the size of the sun, a tendency to be a little bit drunk at all times, and a style of flirtation lecherous enough that it’s worth stepping into an empty office for five minutes to avoid passing him in the hall. The information neither serves to confirm or disprove Lionel’s gut feeling that John has been flirting shamelessly the whole time they’ve known each other.

Maybe he just tones it down when he flirts with men, Lionel muses to himself, flipping absentmindedly through the Rudquist brief. Lionel can appreciate that sort of discretion — ever since he got into politics, his personal motto has been Don’t Tell, And They Probably Won’t Ask. But with every conversation, every knowing smile and cryptic statement, he wonders just a little bit more what John’s intentions really are.  
The next week, they’re back in what is fast becoming Lionel’s favorite little coffee shop. They’ve come to a rare lull in the conversation, and the little questions in the back of Lionel’s mind finally coalesce into something he can actually ask.

“Why me?”

“I’m not sure what you mean by that,” John says, sipping his tea (the staff here has finally given up trying to give him coffee).

“You’re an important man,” Lionel clarifies after a moment’s thought. “You interact with plenty of high-powered diplomatic officials on a daily basis. Why aren’t you inviting the Secretary of State or the Indian Ambassador out for coffee once a week? Why choose someone you would normally never interact with?”

“First of all, how do you know I don’t invite the Indian Ambassador to coffee?” John says, and Lionel is a little bit alarmed by how much his heart sinks. “I don’t,” John continues, “but you have no way of knowing that, unless you’ve taken enough of an interest in me to ask around.” He smirks. “Or I suppose you might just be vain enough to _assume_ you’re the only person I’ve taken an interest in.”

“Well, I’m a charismatic guy,” Lionel says with exaggerated vanity. “You can’t blame me for thinking my company would be enough for anyone.”

“Yes, you’re certainly man enough for me,” John murmurs. He stirs his tea thoughtfully while Lionel tries to will himself out of blushing like a schoolgirl.

“But to answer your question,” John continues, “part of it may be that your cricket bat has been leaning against your desk collecting dust since you unpacked your office, and I still live in hope of persuading you to join our game. The other part — you might recall that when we first met, I said that that place you work tends to turn people horribly dull. Some of them come into it dull, of course. Some of them were born dull, I expect.” John rolls his eyes. “But some of them began their term of service as interesting men, and it’s a damned shame when they finally stumble out at the end of their sentence, thoroughly bereft of all their previous allure.” He looks Lionel square in the eye. “I’m trying to keep you from losing your allure.”

“I hadn’t realized I was alluring to begin with,” Lionel says, a little bit thrown off by John’s frankness.

“Oh, come, Lionel,” John protests. “Surely someone must have told you have the powerful and distinctly masculine presence you have. I’m sure the ladies find it quite enticing.”

“Not recently,” Lionel says quietly, fiddling with the cuff of his shirt. “And I never intended to entice any ladies.” He raises an eyebrow, meeting John’s gaze squarely.

“All the better for me, then,” John says, the corner of his mouth curling up in a tiny smirk. Lionel frowns, then makes a decision.

“Where’s this cricket game of yours, again?”

John breaks into a full grin, his eyes dancing. “Normally it’s at the embassy, but I’m afraid the ambassador and I had a bit of a disagreement, so it’s been moved to my current residence. Lovely old house in the suburbs – I once rescued its owner from a nasty misunderstanding with Pakistani customs officials, and now he lends me one of the upstairs suites whenever I’m in town.” He smirks. “Anyway, it’s miles nicer than the embassy, so there’s really nothing to complain about.”

“Sounds perfect,” Lionel says.

***

This far outside the city, the buildings are huge and ostentatious, and the street numbers painted on their walls are hidden under overgrown sheets of ivy. Lionel finally spots the right house (“There will be two identical black Maseratis out front — not to my taste at all, but I suppose my host is entitled to as many mid-life crises as his stock portfolio can support”) and pulls over.

“Ah! Lionel!” John says as a housekeeper shows Lionel into the enormous back yard. “Just in time! Let me introduce you to the rest of the players.”

Lionel meets at least a dozen staffers from various embassies — British, Australian, Indian, Bangladeshi — a South African expat who works at one of the bigger lobbying firms, a Sri Lankan student at Georgetown who’s interning at the State Department, a CEO from London who stops by to play any time he’s in town, the British ambassador’s teenaged son, and, surprisingly, a freshman congressman from New Mexico who is apparently minor nobility on his mother’s side. The businessman who owns the house is on his cell phone, talking heatedly about how the situation in Qumar might affect oil prices; John waves at him, gesturing towards Lionel, and he waves vaguely back.

“We divide up a bit differently every week,” John says as the players begin sorting themselves into teams. “But it tends to come down to colonists versus colonized — Australians with us, Asians on the other side, and so on.”

Lionel laughs. “Welcome to Washington DC — even our casual sporting events are political.”

John talks him into batting first, and Lionel finds himself at the end of the pitch, staring down the Sri Lankan student, who is bowling for the other team. It takes Lionel a few bowls to really get into the rhythm of the game. Cricket has never been his favorite sport — he’s only kept in practice because most Americans are very impressed to hear that one of their own has mastered the incomprehensible rules and lingo. But he scores a run, and then two more, sending the ball sailing past the edge of the infield.

He’s dismissed sooner than he would have liked, but the fact that he’s outdoors without anything pressing to do keeps him relaxed and happy. He cheers along with his teammates and gets to know Cole, the South African expat, and then when they take the field he bowls a pretty decent over. In the center of all the excitement is John, who seems larger than life on the pitch — the intensity of his concentration when he bats, the speed with which he scores runs, the dazzling smiles he periodically sends Lionel’s way. It would be overwhelming, but for once Lionel is enjoying himself too much to stop and overthink things.

At the end of the match, the colonized team is declared the winner by five runs. There are handshakes all around, and the housekeeper comes out with a huge tray of tea and cookies. Lionel makes small talk with the Georgetown student until the crowd starts drifting away. He looks around, searching for their host so he can say goodbye and head out.

“Looking for someone?” John is right next to him, leaning against the wall.

“Our host?” Lionel says. “I was going to thank him for having us.”

“Oh, Geoffrey ran off halfway through the first innings,” John says. “Something about Venezuela and the price of ethanol.”

“I guess I’ll have to settle for thanking you for inviting me, then.” Lionel massages a knot in his arm and winces. “Even if I will be sore in the morning. Nothing like a couple of hours running around to remind me of my age.”

John looks at him appraisingly. “You know, I find it’s best to try and stop my muscles from aching before they really begin, and my suite here has a magnificent jacuzzi.” His voice drops low. “I’d be honored if you’d join me upstairs.”

Lionel smirks — it’s either that or let his jaw drop in surprise. “My cricket game was that good, huh?” he quips.

“You were magnificent,” John says, deadpan.

Lionel scrubs a hand through his hair, thinking. He’d like to say this wasn’t what he’d been expecting, but after months of not-quite-dates, he _knows_ John. More importantly, he knows how John makes him feel — relaxed, entertained, the closest thing to _happy_ he’s been since he took the damn White House Counsel job. He glances towards the street, feeling the weight of the latest crisis looming over him, then turns back towards the house: the last stragglers from the cricket match are drifting out, waving their goodbyes, John is looking at him expectantly, one careful hand on Lionel’s arm. Lionel sighs and smiles to himself.

“Lead the way,” he says.

“ _Magnificent_ ,” John says with a wicked grin, and leans up to kiss Lionel, insistent and thorough and exactly what Lionel needs. Lionel grabs John’s arm and steers him towards the house, letting his cricket bat fall to the floor with a clatter. John laughs and draws him towards the stairs.

The next morning, Lionel’s muscles are twice as sore as they otherwise would have been, but somehow he doesn’t mind.

***

Lionel Tribbey’s office is full of boxes waiting to be packed.

He can’t put his Out box away yet, since it’s full of papers that Sandra has yet to deliver to their proper recipients. His books have gotten all out of order, and will need to be alphabetized again before they go back into their cartons. As for his diploma and knickknacks, well, who has time to pack insignificant things like that when the Department of Transportation might come crashing down around his proverbial ears at any moment?

The firm is expecting him back on Monday, but Sandra can’t spare any paralegals to help him pack, and anyway Lionel prefers to handle things himself. He hasn’t had a spare moment for weeks, though — he knows he’s making the right call by leaving, but he really does respect President Bartlet, so he’s going to tie up as many loose ends as possible before he goes. He reaches for the next thing in his In box, and blinks when he finds it empty.

“Sandra!” he calls. “What else do I have?”

“Nothing,” she responds, appearing at the doorway. She only has one folder in her hands, and it’s a thin one. “We’re all done. Ron and Paula are handling everything in the interim, until President Bartlet can appoint someone else.”

Lionel sighs. “I guess it’s time to pack up my office, then.”

“Let me know if you need any help,” Sandra says.

“No, I’ll handle it.” Lionel stands, stretching to work out a crick in his back.

His empty In box goes into the first carton; his law school diploma goes on top, followed by the picture of his nieces and nephew.

“So it’s true, then?” says a voice from the doorway. “You’ve finally decided to escape this madness.”

Lionel turns. John is leaning against the door frame, hands in his pockets. “I turned in my resignation two weeks ago,” Lionel confirms. “I would have told you, but I couldn’t reach you on your cell phone.”

John waves his hand magnanimously. “I was embroiled in a sensitive diplomatic situation, it’s hardly your fault.” He leans against Lionel’s desk. “What are you off to now, then? Back to the private sector?”

“Right away,” Lionel says. “I’ll be back at Lein & Beltrandy on Monday.”

“So soon?” John raises an eyebrow. “Sure you wouldn’t fancy a holiday before you dive back into the next legal brouhaha?”

Lionel turns and leans against his desk, folding his arms across his chest. “What did you have in mind?”

“Saint Lucia,” John says automatically. “A family friend has a beach house, the views are tremendous.”

“I told Beltrandy I’d be in for a deposition on Monday,” Lionel says.

“Gorgeous clear water, sandy beaches,” John lists calmly. “Drinks with little umbrellas in them. A cricket pitch in the back yard, if you’re in the mood for a match.” He steps further into the office, lowering his voice. “An absolutely splendid king-sized bed, if you’re in the mood for something else.” He’s keeping most of his face completely neutral, but his eyes are smirking at Lionel. Lionel wants to see that smirk fill the rest of his face.

“Sandra?” he calls out the doorway. “Get Max Beltrandy on the phone for me.”


End file.
